


A Study in Scarlet Lettering

by Fortylinestare



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Frankly some of the worst decision making I have ever seen, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fortylinestare/pseuds/Fortylinestare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only so much neglect you can take before the anger and the pain will find an outlet. A stupid, destructive, devastating outlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Scarlet Lettering

**Author's Note:**

> he/him/his refers to Watson.  
> He/Him/His refers to Sherlock.  
> There was never any question who got to be capitalised. In John's head, He's always capitalised.

He should have known it would be her. No knock, no bell - just a firm, even footstep on the stairs and then suddenly she's there in his living room, looking as sleek and surreal as ever.

It's been months but suddenly it feels like minutes and he can remember every second of her presence. Her perfume and her sterile nudity and the way she touched Him. Innocent touching made intimate because it was Him and He didn't ever.

"Get out." 

It's easier than he would have thought, being rude to her. He remembers it always was, like somehow because she'd broken all the rules she doesn't count.  
She had touched Him, so she had given up the right to first names and pleasantries. It feels strangely satisfying, being rude to her.

"Now, now, Dr Watson. Is that any way to treat an old friend?"

Purring sensuality, formal titles and last names. He settles into the familiar role. Nothing has changed. 

“He's not here.” 

A flash of annoyance. She's not used to being kept waiting and he likes it. Revels in the rare moment of power over her. 

"When will he be back?" 

He opens his mouth but she's already speaking. “No, of course, you're not sure. Never can be, with him.”

She's right, of course. But he still glares at her, the picture of indignation, waits for his brain to think of something clever to say in response. And waits. Annnd waits. Fuck.

She raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow. “Oh, I'm sure you think you know, but this is him we're talking about. He'd lie to his own mother without thinking twice. Don't take it personally. I never do.” 

She takes out a mirror, inspects perfect lips. He takes advantage of her distraction and inspects them too, tells himself they're too red, too rounded, too sharp.

She seems satisfied, though, and emphasizes her next sentence with the snap shut of the compact.

“I’m assuming you don’t know where he’s gone?” He hesitates and she nods and moves away from him, across the room and towards the fireplace. 

But he’s not going to be ignored, so he clenches his fists and gets out an excellent opener. 

“What are you –”, but that’s all he’s got. He waits for the rest of the sentence to materialize but it just doesn't. Tries again. “Look, here, you can’t just –”, but it’s no use. He’s impotent with anger and cowed by the withering look she directs at him over her shoulder. 

“Oh, don’t hurt yourself, Dr Watson. I’d so hate for him to come home and find I’ve broken his favourite plaything.” 

He stands up abruptly, takes the necessary steps forward and plants himself in front of her. He scowls, glowers, tries to look intimidating. The effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that her six inch heels put his eyes at her shoulder level. 

He speaks slowly, as though she’s hard of hearing or slightly stupid. Enjoys the rush it gives him more than he should. 

“Not that you seem to care, but I’ve told you before. I’m not his boyfriend and I’m not his plaything.” 

She lowers her eyes to his, taking her time, emphasizing the distance. “Then what exactly are you?” 

Defiance, now. Confidence. “His friend.” 

She laughs, and it feels like being trodden on. 

He’s angry. Wants to lash out, hurt her, but he doesn’t know how. He’s never been very good at this. 

“And what are you? His texting buddy?” It’s weak, pathetic really, but it seems to hit the mark. She’s still smiling, but it’s sadder, less sure. 

“I was once. Now, I don’t know.” Then the wistfulness is gone and she’s back on the attack. “Still, anything is better than embarrassing flatmate. You actually live with him, and I’m willing to bet he’s more honest with me than he’s been with you.” 

He flinches because she's right and because He's been so much worse lately. Put downs and casual dismissals and gone for days at a time. Bloodstains on the sofa and men and women and noises late at night. Unnamed, unexplained. 

He doesn't let himself think about it.  
If he starts he knows he'll get stuck in the cycle of when and who and how many and did they and could I and why not and how and where and when and who and no, he just can't let himself think about it.  
He can't let himself think about anything else. 

Her words are still hanging in the air because what can he say? 

Of course she’s spot on, because she knows Him as well as he does and on some level they’re both the same, the two of them. Both wanting what neither of them can have. Both hating that the other has a part of Him, defensive of their own. 

His world is precious and secret and electric. He loves the danger and the safety of Him and how comfortable he feels at His side. He loves the challenge and the immediacy of it all, in the world where it’s just the two of them. He sees the looks of envy they all give him, jealous that he’s let in where no-one else can go. He sees it and he loves it, knowing that he’s been singled out, that he’s special, different, chosen. 

And then she came blaring into their world, all blood red nails and too-tight dresses. He hates that she can touch Him, that she gets to whisper sordid words into His ear and shock Him with her intimacy. He hates that He stays to listen, that He lets her back in for more. 

He looks at her and suddenly she's everything that's wrong with Him, everything that's standing in the way and if he could only get her to leave, leave and never come back, then maybe everything would be alright and he could fix Him.  
Not fix Him. Help him. 

She folds her arms and examines him, eyes mercilessly roving over crumpled clothes and two-day stubble. 

She smiles that infuriating smile and it’s everything she isn’t saying. It’s her allure and precision and his woeful inadequacy and then he's moving towards her and raising his hand and she's not even flinching. Not even for a second and he hates her for that. Emasculating. Mocking him. Looking down on him and he’s powerless now and so utterly alone. 

Then suddenly she’s grabbing his hand, pulling it down and away and holding his hip and bringing him closer, too close, and his brain is scrambling again because this is new and wrong and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to make it stop. 

And then he doesn’t want it to stop, because she’s perfect and it’s been so long and so hard and so lonely. 

He wants this for all the wrong reasons and alarm bells are screaming in his brain for him to stop and that it’s her and he should run, run away to Him. 

But she has his hand and she’s leading him, incapable as ever, through the door and around the corner and he can’t think anymore because it’s too much. She’s shutting the door when the smell hits him. Clean soap and wool and chemicals and oh, they’re in His room. It’s His dresser and His mirror and His bed and suddenly he wants to do this. Needs to do it. 

She strips, but it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. He’s not surprised to see she isn’t wearing underwear. If anything, he’s repulsed, thinking of the thousands of others who’ve been there, seen it, felt the same empty longing that he feels. 

Then he’s lunging, grabbing for her, abandoning his dignity and his clothing with all the grace of a man throwing himself off a cliff. 

They’re on the bed somehow and he can feel the waxy stain of lipstick on his cheek, trailing down his chest. He’s torn between pushing her away and pushing her down further, faster, harder. 

He tries to lose himself in sensation, driven by hate and want and anger and need. He’s with her, punishing her, punishing himself. Punishing Him. 

Is she doing the same? He doesn’t know, because that hard glossy façade of assurance never wavers, not even when he drives into her and they’re both gasping, holding arms and hips and shoulders hard enough to bruise. 

But he's sure she has her reasons, even if he doesn't understand them and then somewhere in the midst of the pulling and writhing and anger and violence of it all, he thinks maybe he does. 

A power play, he thinks, as she pulls his hair too hard, runs her perfect scarlet nails mercilessly down his back. He feels her break skin, feels the blood trickle down to the mattress. 

He thinks of bloodstains on the sofa and he doesn't even care that now he's going to have to wash the sheets or maybe buy a whole new set. Maybe a whole new mattress, because otherwise how are they going to hide this from Him? How can they cover it up when it's over and they hate themselves and they can't afford to let Him see the mess they've left behind? 

Ok, so he does care. Can't stop thinking about what they're doing and how wrong it is and how on earth they're going to pretend it didn't happen. 

His head isn't in it and she can tell and she hates him for it. He can see that, because for every inch he slips away she drags him closer, wraps him tighter, tries desperately to hold him with her eyes. And the more she does, the more he pulls away and she can see in his eyes the disgust and the fear and she feels it too, pushes harder, clings tighter. 

And now her eyes are closed and she's calling His name again and again, but he doesn't even care because she's with him and this is something He can't ever take away from him. Something he took away from Him. He's afraid and ecstatic and trying desperately not to think about what this means and who he's with. 

Then it's his turn to cry out, but it feels cold and brutal and he's left unsatisfied. Suddenly they're both overly aware of who they're with and what they've done.  
In the silence after, he can't look at her but she refuses to look away from him. She stares defiantly, as though daring him to judge her. 

How can he? How could anyone? 

And for one long moment he feels sure that if He were here He would understand. He'd look at them, run the data through all of those instruments of His, those test tubes in His head and somehow understand that they were angry and they were lonely and they were His, really. Always His. 

And He'd forgive them. 

The thought lasts as long as the time between his taking a breath and hearing the creak of a foot on the landing outside, then it's shattered. 

He knows she hears it too because of the way she tenses in his arms, but she doesn't move or say anything. 

What is there to say? 

And suddenly he knows that He could never understand this, never forgive them. It's so far beyond rational and so deeply wrapped up in need and connection and anger and misdirection that no scientist could ever trace the trail. 

His brain and his eyes and his precious deductive reasoning could tell Him what had happened in excruciating detail. No doubt they already had. But they couldn't tell Him why it had happened, that they didn't mean it and they loved Him and they were sorry. God, so sorry. 

Suddenly he can't stand it any more. Can't be lying there and touching her and thinking of Him. 

He's up and out of bed and pacing, cursing, still unable to look at her. Out of the corner of his eye he sees that she's lying there, unmoving, staring up at the ceiling. 

How can she be still and staring when everything is noisy and wrong and he just wants to shower to get the smell of her off him. The smell of what they've done.  
Not that it matters now. There's no hiding. Was there ever, with Him? Did they ever really want to? 

He had known all along that He would never not know. In His own house? In His own bed? No, some dark part of them had wanted Him to see it and to feel it. Feel something. Feel anything. 

He wanted some proof that He cared, wanted to show Him there was another person in that house with thoughts and feelings and the ability to bloody mess up everyone else's lives. 

Was that what he had wanted? Revenge? Attention? Well, he's had his fill and he feels sick with it, with the feeling that he’s just ruined it all, that he's chosen his poison, swallowed the pill and is waiting in some abandoned building to die. 

Somewhere, though, deep down in the blackest, sickest part of his gut, he feels a kind of triumph, because he’s ruined her too. He’s thrown his world away, but now she can never touch it and some crawling, coveting part of him calls that a victory. 

He laughs a manic, defeated laugh, picks up her dress and throws it at her. It’s too light to hit her hard, but he still enjoys the sensation, a final blow from the battery of their betrayal. There’s fear in her eyes as she watches him, the kind of fear good citizens feel when a madman walks through traffic. He enjoys that too, somewhere amidst the grief and the overwhelming reckless sense of having nothing left to lose. 

“Get out.” This time there’s no joy in being rude. They’ve gone so far past discourtesy that it no longer holds any appeal. 

She says nothing, silently dresses and leaves. He can’t know how she’s feeling, almost doesn’t care. Why should he? She’s ruined him just as much as he’s ruined her. Maybe one day, when he can’t bear to blame himself anymore, he’ll learn to blame her. 

As she walks down the corridor, heels in hand, he listens intently for any sign that she’s seen Him. There’s only silence, the slam of the front door and, in its wake, crushing fear. 

He shoves it back, strips the bed and dresses himself. Scrubs at his face, trying to erase the telltale smears of red. Stares at the door, paralysed. 

Considers the window, just for a second. 

Looks back at the mattress, where the blood from his back has soaked through the sheets. 

Goes back to staring at the door. 

Long minutes pass and he can’t move. Can’t make himself go out to where he knows He’s waiting. Sitting on the couch, suit crisp, posture perfect. He looks down at his own rumpled clothes and wonders how he’ll ever be able to face Him like this. 

He can’t bear to imagine what He must think of him. What He must be feeling or – oh god, so much worse! – not feeling. 

He considers sneaking away like her, but where would he go? And no amount of time thinking over what he’d done and what he’d have to do would make it any easier. 

Then his traitor legs move him toward the door, even as his mind tries to scramble away, because deep down he knows he doesn’t deserve to hide. 

The creak of the door, the never-ending hall and then He’s there. Just as he’d pictured, He’s holding himself too tightly and His face is set. 

Set with what? Disappointment? Discomfort? Something? 

He squares his shoulders and walks into the silent room. 

“Sherlock.”


End file.
